Blue like the azure and profoundly deep seas of antiquity.Red like the vermilion and earthy caves where the walls are decorated with the myths of our mad forefathers and our disappointed foremothers.Such a beating it was, blue and red, not black and blue as you would normally bruise.There was a bleeding poeticism to this violence, it appalled me. But it appealed to my maniacal sense of rhythm.

The potential stands idle in amber.The possibility conceals the palimpsest.A lost trail whispers from amongst the leaves.A faded dream lines the heavens with tears.All that we had was a prelude to silence.

I have always wanted to be a film director but recently I came up with the perfect film. This film can fit into almost any genre: action, comedy, drama, or rom com. The film can be made using any budget, blockbuster or art-house. The film can be released as a Christmas movie or a summer flick. The film can open at Cannes or Sundance or even Tribeca. The film is a producer’s long lost brother and an editor’s best friend; that is to say it is both easy to edit yet filled with effects. It examines some heavy themes but in a lighthearted way. It deals with prevalent issues head on but utilizes a great deal of tact and savvy. It is self-aware without being condescending. It can be said to occupy the very essence and soul of minimalistic cinema.

She is impoverished by hope and hounded by frustration.We meet in tacit dreams and infest an overactive imagination.She is sealed in an elegant prison in the countryside.So in the sight of anything new, we stand petrified.

She is fluent in dialects of ugly written in beautiful ink.A touch of sand-kissed skin and greasy fried food lips.The spirit of timelessness washed up on this shore, but it didn’t have time to stay.We are robbed before the arrival of riches. Shipping not included.Neon bags of money in nooses hanging from plastic palm trees.All these shrill thrills but no escapades tonight.

It was a soft summer afternoon, the one where the wind feels like a familiar kiss as you do the dishes after a big family feast held outside in the garden. That is to say, in a very long winded way, it was an hour to sunset and the temperature was 19 (Celsius of course because I am not a neanderthal) and there was a light breeze. It was the kind of afternoon that I imagine the corrupted youth of Athens longed for. The kind where they lounged around and spoke of all the things they saw and never understood. And the only person that told them the truth was Socrates.

A pigeon perched on my concrete windowsill.It’s been there since the days of the Pharaohs, I think. Or more like two long Orwellian hours of a heavy late afternoon. In the dying summer of a city stuck on loop. Hours that coax us out of our skin and into something a little lighter.

Sinister torrents of sorrowful tunes trickled onto the streets.The string section strung along with the accompanist’s silent doubt.Flutes were confiscated before they had performed a note.The orchestra played this flood into a frenzy.

A Maltese tiger cub smiles playfully at the moon.Her world transformed by a simple whistled tune.This queen bee possesses the heavy scars of empathy.Trapped in the wrong time, searching for an embassy.

Fools and finicky frolickers filibuster.We rob ourselves of aching love stories.An exile is only as sweet as the return;Broken hearts are resurrected by the imminent poundingOf those ostentatious war drums.

Well-positioned self-deception;Such traps I carefully planted in my path.Never to escape from this prison I built.The fear, it swells and professesThat devising your own devicesFroths your own delicious demises.

Symbolically scourging simplicity suppresses a sprightly sincerity.A capricious dance ends with the devouring of souls.Complementary contemplation poised on the verge of poison.Haunting regrets slip into the swaying ocean.